Things People Say…

People say
The things people say.
Come to find
That birdsong
Has more meaning
Than these
Phatic phrases —
Habitual complaints
On whatever perils
The season presents.
Everything conveyed
With petulance
Or heightened alarm —
Boys crying wolf, all.
The quiet retreat
Helps evaluate
The truth —
Or untruth —
Of the matter.

The snow, ink-stained
At the edges
Where they pass,
Is still white
As a virgin page
On the field.
The frozen air
Reserves its sharpest bites
For those who greet
It so bitterly.
(It is gentle with me,
A lover’s teeth nibbling
At my ear.)

And I admit
That he is a hard lover.
But winter carouses
In the treetops.
“Come to me,”
He croons.
He offers beauties:
Snowcapped gravestones,
The soft white lines
Defining the trees’
Sharp architecture,
And a crystalline sky
That lingers
In the setting sun’s embrace.

Kisses of wind —
Snow- or spring-scented,
Depending on the day’s direction —
Lure me onward.
And always,
These throaty whispers:
“Don’t close your eyes, love.
Here are hands,
Soft enough to soothe
And strong enough to steady.”


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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